


What Have We Become?

by JadeLupine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Chest Hair, Choking, Darkish Will, Gun Fucking, Gun play, Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Intense, Kissing, Love, M/M, Naka Choko, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Romance, Sad, Sex, Sex but it's sad too?, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:05:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLupine/pseuds/JadeLupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes hold of Hannibal’s arms and kisses him, searchingly, longingly, sadly, and he does not stop, he goes on, very tenderly, until he feels that Hannibal’s ache is his own, they ache in tandem, like a long, slow chord on a broken piano. He clings to the taste, as he begins kissing Hannibal’s neck, and he tastes the salt of a bruise, Will kneels. He pulls on Hannibal’s belt, and the cannibal, he only closes his eyes in preparation. As Will pulls his zipper, his large, aroused member is taken into Will’s mouth, and he shivers, oh he’s been wanting this ever since <i>don’t psychoanalyze me</i>. <br/>Will knows that friends don’t do this, friends don’t do this, but they are not friends. <br/>“What have we become?” he asks aloud. </p>
<p>(a continuation of the dinner in Naka-Choko)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Have We Become?

**Author's Note:**

> __  
> And what can I tell you my brother, my killer  
>  What can I possibly say?  
> I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you  
> I'm glad you stood in my way. 
> 
> _If you ever come by here, for her or for me_  
>  And your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.  
> 

Will is not an ugly man, Hannibal thinks. He is beautiful like a ruined building is beautiful, stately, derelict, half-broken. When Hannibal tries to imagine him as a child, he cannot help but see the dark, serious eyes of an adult longing for sexual awakening.

Will watches Hannibal cook, as he deftly slices his ginger, and he thinks, cooking is like breathing to this man. Hannibal had a half-vacant, absent eyed look when he cooked, and his lips are relaxed and easy. Will wonders whether a killers hands are cold, and he feels a feverish desire to touch them.

“Now, you will watch, as this pork roasts quietly.” Hannibal said, moving to stand beside Will. He wipes his hands on an old dish towel, and Will stares at them, his hands are scarred slightly, little burns and cuts from cooking knives, slightly tired hands, but not old hands. He can feel Hannibal’s shoulder touching his, and Will remembers the time when the only touch he and Hannibal had shared were brief snatches of fingertips in the casual passing of items.

“I wonder if that pig had had a mother.” Will veils his words, of course, he is careful and precise. “I wonder if she will cry, at the loss of the piglet.”

“All pigs are born of sows.” Hannibal says quietly, and there is a smile dripping like blood on his face as he leans on the kitchen counter. “Maybe the sow had thought that the piglet would have had a profoundly bright future.”

“Oh, it’s future is bright, all right.” Will grinned (oh, he had not used to grin, before, he had used to smile politely), looking at the yellow flame the pan was on. He looks down again, at Hannibal’s relaxed hands, with the bones that moved languorously under the fine skin. He wonders, again, if a killer’s hands are cold.

“May I touch your hands?” Will asks quietly, and he feels a hint of shyness creep back into his voice. But Hannibal only stretched out his hands to Will, who, finally, oh finally, touched them with his own. He moves his fingertips down Hannibal’s palm, and he holds them as if they were his anchors, bound in tan skin. Hannibal still looks at him silently, his eyes burning with a strange, absent fire that Will did not understand. Will traces the lines on Hannibal’s palms.

“Do they tell the fortunes, these lines?” Will murmurs, looking quietly down at them. “What would yours say?”

“If lines told the fortunes.” Hannibal said, his hands still clasped in Will’s. “I would like them to be empty. I do not wish my fortune carved on my skin.”

Will, in a fit of something strange and indecent, brings Hannibal’s hands up to his face. He puts his lips against them, quietly, tasting the warmth and salt of cooking. He rests his lips against Hannibal’s palms for a long, long time, and his eyes flutter closed as he stands, fascinated. When he finally puts Hannibal’s hands down, the cannibal stares at him in his darkened way, and Will notices that the killer is visibly aroused, evidence of his desire tenting the silk of his pants.

“Are my hands cold, Will?” Hannibal asks quietly. “Are they cold like a killer’s hands?”

“No.” Will’s lips spilled the truth as he remembers the taste of Hannibal’s hands. He will save it, that taste, hold it in the back of his throat. “No, they aren’t.”

Hannibal ignores his erection, so Will does too.

Will eats the meat with a smile on his face. He does not know whether he is accustomed to human flesh, whether he likes it, or whether he is merely smiling at the memory of Hannibal’s hands, how they tasted and felt. He wants to touch them again, those rough, laborer’s hands, taste the salt of sweat and cooking, he wants to do so many things that he knows he cannot, he shouldn’t.

“We are the same,” Hannibal says. “You and I.”

“In what way?” Will did not deny anything, like he once would have vehemently spat out denial. “How are we the same?”

“You have traded good and evil for behaviorism.” Hannibal says quietly. “So had I.”

“When?” Will asks, his eyes trained on Hannibal’s wonderful hands. He wants to touch them again, but suddenly they stiffened, the veins standing out.

“If I told you…” Hannibal whispers, and all of a sudden there was something dark and stag-like about his face. “I would have to kill you, Will.”

He was not joking. That much, Will knew.

“Oh.” Will said quietly. He wishes Hannibal’s words would stay folded in his mind, that they wouldn’t swim in a haze of lies and uneasiness. His own hands tremble.

“May I sleep here tonight?” Will asked suddenly, a smile touched onto his face. “It’s late, and it’s two hours to drive back.”

“Of course.” Hannibal agrees graciously. He finishes his meal, and Will walks beside him, wordlessly washing dishes. It feels wonderfully domestic, and Will wonders whether how this was Alana felt. He feels jealousy worm inside him. I am number one, he thinks with a tremble, as he dried the last dish. I am the one he wants to ruin, to tear, to bite.

He wonders when he had begun to take pride in such a thing.

Hannibal takes him to a spare room, with sparse white sheets and a large, incomprehensible painting on the wall. Will lays down his coat on the bed, and Hannibal leans on the doorframe, he says,

"If only you knew.”

without meaning to, and wishes he hadn't. Will looks too dark and shabby and longing, and Hannibal wishes he would take his words like a standard instead of folding them carefully and gently and hiding them away.

Will just says, "I know", and Hannibal and the wind drift together from the door.

He shuts the door.

He waits.

He opens the door.

When he opens the door and finds Hannibal, standing there almost apologetically (eyebrows raised just slightly beneath the pale brown hair falling into his eyes, hands in his coat pockets—this, too, is endearing, but it hurts), Will wonders for a moment if he wants to be thrilled or worried. He doesn't even ask to be let in; he speaks without crossing the threshold.

"May I share your bed tonight?”

“Uh.” Will’s hands shake. “I--- Please.”

“Thank you.” Hannibal seems casual, almost easy as he slides off his coat, and leaves it on the chair. He removed the suspenders around his belt, and unbuttoned his shirt with quick, deft fingers that Will wanted to hold forever. Hannibal takes off his shirt and Will thinks, this is the first time I have seen him bare-chested. There was so much intimacy between them, so many dark passageways of longing and hurt, but neither had seen the other anything other than fully clothed, and so, Will slides out of his shirt with ease, comfort. He thinks that Hannibal is looking longingly at him, and Will averts his eyes. He felt a slight tingle of arousal in his stomach, and he  thinks _no._ No.

“Let me touch your face.” Hannibal is suddenly too close to him, and Will feels as if he will never breathe again. “You wanted to touch my hands. Let me touch your face. Even Steven.”

Will laughs. Nods.

Hannibal’s fingers touch his face with a relentless excitement. Will feels bright and vivid, alive, he is killing Hannibal again, but not with his hands, he is doing it with his face, as Hannibal stares at him with a twisted delight. Despite everything, Will feels vaguely honored that Hannibal is touching his face, his lips, his eyes in a terribly longing, aching fashion, as if they had crossed the boundary between friend and lover, and were floating in a threshold of nothingness.  Oh, Will thinks quietly, I hate this man, he is _not_ my friend, but look at how he touches me. Look at the expression in his eyes, look at his hands, oh, oh, Mother, look at his hands.

Hannibal moves closer to him, and the hands are tighter, lips pressed in a soft, pressing kiss. Will stiffens, friends do not kiss, friends do not kiss bare-chested in rooms alone. But they are not friends. They are _hated._ Will kisses back with that promise, his body bending into Hannibal’s feeling the man’s erection again, oh, Will himself is aroused. Hannibal’s hair tickles Will’s forehead, and Will wants to drown in this warmth, he wants to spend the rest of his life kissing Hannibal, but he also hates the man with a damning passion.

Oh, do you understand?

Hannibal pulls away, his lips are swollen, bitten, and his eyes are bright and alive. A dark ghost of joy flits in Will’s belly, and he touches the hair on Hannibal’s chest, he had thought the man would be waxed and shaven, but here he was, his torso smattered in light hair. Will ran his fingers though it. He kisses it, and he think, what have we become?

“What have we become?” he asks aloud.

“Nothing.” Hannibal says quietly. “You know what I am. I know what you are. We are now nothing to each other.”

Will feels idiotically like crying. He thinks, _you are everything now._

“Kiss me, Will.” Hannibal places his hands on Will’s shoulders. “Please, do.”

Will does.

He takes hold of Hannibal’s arms and kisses him, searchingly, longingly, sadly, and he does not stop, he goes on, very tenderly, until he feels that Hannibal’s ache is his own, they ache in tandem, like a long, slow chord on a broken piano. He clings to the taste, as he begins kissing Hannibal’s neck, and he tastes the salt of a bruise, Will kneels. He pulls on Hannibal’s belt, and the cannibal, he only closes his eyes in preparation. As Will pulls his zipper, his large, aroused member is taken into Will’s mouth, and he shivers, oh he’s been wanting this ever since _don’t psychoanalyze me_. Will knows that friends don’t do this, friends don’t do this, but they are not friends.

Hannibal is hard in his mouth, and Will thinks that the man fills him, and Hannibal pushes himself harder into his mouth, until Will feels himself choking slightly. Hannibal seemed to get even more aroused at the sound, Will can taste the precome on his cock, and he tantalizingly runs his tongue down the shaft as Hannibal trembles. The man was so painfully physical that it made him human, he craved sex like a _man_ , oh, and Hannibal was no god.

Will rises, and pushes Hannibal to the bed, and the older man, taken by surprise, falls gracefully, pulling Will with him by the waist, until they are both lying down, their arousals pressing against the other. Will rubs his cock on Hannibal’s belly, and Hannibal rolls over, pinning the younger man under him, and Will remembers that this man is dangerous, he is a cannibal, but he only stares up at Hannibal with a slavish look, his tongue tracing his swollen lips. Come love me, he thinks quietly. You’re all I’ve got. I’m all you’ve got.

He’s got Alana, a voice whispered to Will. And you don’t. And you _want_ her.

Hannibal is rearing over Will now, his hands pressing on Will’s throat, he seemed to take a sensual pleasure in the strangled, broken gasps Will was giving out, the twitches on his hands, and Will’s eyes gleam, for the lack of air was strangely intoxicating, Hannibal was palming his member quickly, and Will wonders if he was planning to ejaculate on him, over him, paying no heed to Will’s own desire.

“Did you do this to Alana?” he croaks, as Hannibal removes his hands.

“Yes.” Hannibal grins, oh he _grins_ , his sharp, shark-teeth showing, glinting in the dimness, and Will imagines Alana in the bed with Hannibal, choking and being choked.

“Did she choke you?”

“Yes.” Hannibal breathed, and all in once, Will’s hands shoot to Hannibal’s throat, squeezing and pressing, choking and he wants to make Hannibal _beg_ for the mercy he did not deserve, he wanted to _kill_ the man, but not quite. He watches Hannibal’s face turn an odd, arousing shade of puce, and these men, they are sitting up in bed, locked in a power struggle. Will watches Hannibal’s eyes darken, and his mouth working fruitlessly, gasping for the air that Will’s large hands blocked off.

“Did she choke you so hard?” Will grits his teeth, bares them, he is wolfish in his desire to watch Hannibal’s head thrust backward in relentless desperation. “Did she choke you so hard?”

“Nev----er.”

He lets him go.

Hannibal is furiously filling his lungs with air, a ring of redness around his neck that will surely bruise by tomorrow. His hand, however, was at his groin, slowly stroking himself. He was fully erect, his shaft pointing upward, and he was so close, due to Will’s primal display of aggression, of jealousy. Hannibal sees Will’s hand on his own, smaller cock, and the sight delights him, he wants to watch this member spew come all over his clean white sheets. The thought of Will whimpering beneath him excites him, and he stops stroking himself, afraid that he would climax too soon, oh Will Graham was delicious when he was jealous.

He turns Will over roughly, and the man complies for once, bending on his knees, his buttocks in the air, his head facing the bed-head, almost like an obedient dog. Will’s hole, now on display to Hannibal’s eyes, was tight, puckered, he had never been entered, he had never been penetrated, oh his boy was so pure and smooth and delightful, his boy was wonderful, like a bride brought to a sultan.

“Are you a virgin, Will?” Hannibal asks quietly, putting a finger in his mouth, licking it. He wonders how the finger would taste _after_ it’s been inside Will, he relishes the thought of that taste.

“Of course not!” Will sounds almost comically annoyed. “I’ve ---“

“No, Will.” Hannibal strokes his wet finger down Will’s hole, making the man’s (oh, he was just a boy!) hole clench in anticipation, he was both afraid and willing, he was both wanting and un-wanting. “Are you a _virgin_?”

“Yes.” He admits. “I _need_ you to take me. I need you to take me first.”

“Oh, Will.” Hannibal murmurs, looking at the untouched, un-besmirched boy in front of him, and he slowly pushes his finger into Will, feeling the muscles tighten around him, welcoming and unwelcoming. He begins fucking Will with his finger, slowly, carefully, he does not want to hurt Will, at least, not in this way. Will throws his head back, and Hannibal can only see glimpses of his face, alight in excitement, arousal. Hannibal slips out his finger, and Will actually moans at the loss of contact, but oh, Hannibal is not done. He wets a second finger, and this time, they are both fucking Will, his fingers preparing him for the much larger member that would come.

When he is in four fingers, Will’s back is slick and sweaty, and his cock enlarged, dripping with pre-come, and he is making noises that he had never imagined himself to make, he had started out dark and dangerous, but now he wanted Hannibal to fuck him, to take him from behind, to ram him into the wall as if he were nothing. He had imagined Hannibal’s member before, in the guiltiest of fantasies (oh, he had always known he was bisexual), and he was not prepared for it, to say the least.

Hannibal takes out his fingers, and Will’s hole is slightly open, and Hannibal bends down to retrieve Will’s pants, taking out the gun from the pocket. He puts the gun next to Will’s asshole, and slid the icy metal over his thighs, onto his cock, and back between his cheeks.

“What do I have, Will?”

“You have my gun.” Will whispers, in fear and exhilaration. “You’ve got my gun.”

“What if I shoot you with this gun?” Hannibal held the gun at the opening, and slowly pushed it into Will’s asshole. Will moans, the icy metal a sharp contrast to the heat within him, and he feels a shiver of carnal pleasure at the look on Hannibal’s face as he presses the gun into Will, vicious and aroused. He pushes the gun in so far, up to the trigger, and Will feels full, he feels stretched to he limit, and Hannibal’s finger is on the trigger as he slowly moves the gun back and forth, sliding it almost out of Will, before pushing it back in. Hannibal imagines his cock as the gun, and shivers in delight.

“Is this dangerous, Will?” Hannibal whispers. “Do I feel dangerous to you?”

“You’re the lion.” Will snarls. “You look dangerous. You _act_ dangerous. And, in the end, in an unexpected cliché, you are.”

“Look at me.” Hannibal says quietly, withdrawing the gun from Will’s hole, leaving it gaping for a second, wanting more. “Look. At. Me.”

Will turns his head, and Hannibal has placed the gun inside his mouth, his eyes rolling in pleasure, the taste of Will coating his tongue. Hannibal feels the tang of cold metal, and he savors the musky taste of Will, it runs down his throat. He takes the gun into his mouth, as far as it had been buried in Will’s ass, lewdly staring at Will, the bulge the gun made in his mouth looked like a cock, Will thought of it as his own.

“Do you like how I taste?” he whispers. “Do I taste good?”

Hannibal nods, the gun barrel still inside his mouth. Will feels a burning, fleeting desire to pull the trigger.

“Do I taste better than Randal Tier?” Will grins, his eyes half closed, his lips sensual.

“Yes---“ Hannibal mutters.

“Better than Marissa Schurr? Do I taste better than Beverly?” Will’s eyes hiss and spit.

“Yes. Much better.” Hannibal smiles, before he tastes the gun again.

“Do I taste better than Abigail Hobbs?”

It is as if a wild wind blew over Hannibal, his eyes burned with redness and his hand flew to Will’s throat, pinning him to the bedstead, his teeth gnashing white, his eyes red, demonic. He presses the gun against Will’s throat, it feels wet, with saliva, and icy cold, almost freezing.

“ _Never_ mention Abigail to me like that.” Hannibal growls, and he sounds primitive, dangerous, his accent heavier. “Never. You will _never_ mention her. You will _never_ mention Mischa----“

“I didn’t eve---“ Will sputters.

Hannibal pulls the trigger and nothing happens.

He throws the gun against the wall, where it leaves a dent, and clatters to the ground. He roughly turns Will over, pulls his ass up, and takes his own cock in his hand, positioning it at Will’s entrance. Without a warning, without any more preparation, he thrusts into Will, fully, going deeper, the tightening of the virgin muscles providing him with a carnal pleasure deep inside himself. He slams into Will again, his hips colliding with Will’s pale, young buttock, and the man under him is sobbing.

It hurts for Will, but only for a screaming minute, and then he feels Hannibal’s member in places he had never been filled and felt before, he feels delightfully full, and he thinks deliriously, _this is where I belong_ , and he bucks to Hannibal’s desire, he has been dominant enough for an evening, and Hannibal was truly dangerous tonight. The redness in his pupils ought to have scared Will, but it only arouses him further, and that, combined with the thrusting of Hannibal from behind him, is enough to make Will come, his stickiness spilling all over his hand, dripping on the white sheets.

But Hannibal is not done. He continues thrusting into Will, even as the younger man’s cock softens, he still presses himself into Will, and for once, for the first time, when he climaxes, he does not see Will crying in torment. He does not see Will screaming in pain, or begging for mercy. He does not see Will tied to the cross has he had been. He does not see anything, except for the blinding desire of his orgasm. But he does. He tells himself he does not, but he does. He sees Will Graham lying by his side, sweaty and naked. He sees Will Graham, sitting beside him on a plane. He sees Will laughing, a child in his arms. He sees Will with a young boy, almost five years old. He sees Will with a smile on his face and grey in his hair. He sees Will, as he finally thrusts into him, emptying his seed completely, oh, he sees Will with hair as white as snow and eyes as faded as silk, lying beside him. Hannibal pulls out, and collapses on the bed, breathing heavily.

That is why Will Graham is dangerous, he thinks, tiredly.

He will make you _love_ him.

“I’m sorry.” Will is lying beside him, his eyes limpid and his posture tired. “So sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for.” Hannibal laughs, pulling Will closer. “Nothing at all.”

“For mentioning Abigail.” Will apologizes, moving his nakedness closer to Hannibal’s, running his hand through the hair of the older man’s chest. “And for Mischa, whoever he is.”

“She.” Hannibal says quietly. “She was a girl. She was only five years old.”

“What happened to her?” Will asks, and his lips are suddenly cold. “Is she gone?”

“She died.” Hannibal says quietly, and his lips tremble, as if in ice. He closes his eyes. “In the snow. She was a beautiful body. Or so I would assume.”

“Did you kill her?” Will was insensitive and brash, and he was typical farm-child, he was typical Will. Hannibal finds that he does not mind. “Did you murder her, Hannibal?”

“N---“ The cannibal begins, and his hand shakes silently. He would tell the truth, to Will. He would tell the truth now, because he would not have ever told him before. After all, what Hannibal thought was the truth may not have been. “N---Yes. Yes, I killed her.”

He laughs again, a broken laugh.

“I killed her with my love.” Hannibal says quietly. “I killed her with my love, Will.”

He buries his face into Will’s young, lithe shoulder, to comfort and be comforted, and he finds that the small man is a great source of strength. He knows that he may kill this man with his love, but he would not. Will would not be another Mischa. He could not be a casualty of Hannibal’s love.

“She was the reason.” Hannibal raised his head. “That I traded good and evil for behaviorism.”

“Then why aren’t you killing me?” Will asked, his eyes wide. “For…telling me?”

“I almost did.” Hannibal chuckles sardonically. “Or do you not remember?”

“Yes.” Will moves closer. “With _my_ gun. But it was empty.”

“I know.”

“Did you, though?” Will laughs, but he feels like crying now. “Did you know that it was empty? Or did you really mean to kill me?”

“I did not know that it was empty, Will.” Hannibal says, his eyes serious now. “I thought it was full.”

“Then what would you have done, Hannibal?” Will asks again, his voice trembling. “After you shot me? How would you hide my body? I told _everybody_ I was coming here. How would you hide me?”

If Will had asked this question before, Hannibal would have said that he would hide his body in the tunnels, push him down the sewers, grind up his bones. He would have graphically described how he removes all traces of evidence. He would have. But now, he had seen Will in his moment of orgasm, and at his own climax, Hannibal had envisioned Will with _their_ son (who would be shy, and black-haired, and beautiful), and with grey hair and faded eyes, still as trusting as he once had been. He has seen Will, and he can no longer talk about hiding bodies.

“I would turn the gun on myself.” Hannibal smiles. “And I would have _died_.”

“So…” Will is smiling too, although their words were dark. “I would kill you with _my_ love?”

“Yes.” Hannibal finishes. “You would have.”

**Author's Note:**

> WELL, THERE YOU GO  
> Hannibal's not woobie, he's just a really intense lover, okay.   
> The song in the opening notes is "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen  
> did you like it? did you not?   
> Well, please do leave comments and any sort of review, thank you very much


End file.
